


Stanley Uris's Heart Is A Baby Bird Trapped In A Ribcage Of Twigs

by lookingoodsugar



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bullying, Dead Poets Society AU, Depressive Episode, F/F, M/M, Mention of Suicide Attempt, Mention of abuse, Stanley Uris Has OCD, ben is a trans lesbian, mention of depression, mention of georgie's death, school pressure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookingoodsugar/pseuds/lookingoodsugar
Summary: Bill Denbrough had forgotten how many times he had been told he was destined for greatness





	1. prologue: i gave shape to my fears and made excuses

Welton Academy stood on a green hill, surrounded by trees of varying shades of orange. It was a typical New England campus with old gothic looking buildings and creaky wood. In the yard, there was a lake in which the rowing team practiced. The buildings formed a U with the main building in the middle, the library and the classrooms on the right and the dorms and the canteen on the left. Welton was a boarding school, a prestigious private boarding school where the sons of wealthy politicians and businessmen were taught everything they need to make it into even more prestigious colleges. 

Which also meant: it was the hell pit of bullying.

Stanley Uris could sense it before his feet even touched the green wet lawn. This was a school where kids like him got shoved in hallways and spat on while walking down the stairs. This was where dreams died, where they got smothered in the egg before they could even bloom. He knew that all too well. 

The school had a uniform that consisted of a blazer jacket, a white shirt, grey slacks, and a red and black tie. On warm autumn days, the blazer would perhaps be traded for a sweater. The uniform was required to be worn correctly but Stan knew that before the end of the first term, the most daring, rebellious kind would bring their twist to the dull outfit. 

Stanley Uris was a connoisseur of boarding school. He’d been dragged around across America and the United Kingdom. Pretty much one new every year. He never stayed long because they never let him stay. Who wants the kid with anxiety who can’t even answer teachers when talked to? 

“Welton is different,” his father had said, “I went to Welton. They’re more accepting.” 

Stan’s father was often wrong. He was wrong when he had said Stan didn’t have OCD. He was also wrong when he had said his anxiety was just him acting out. He was still wrong when he had said Stan would one day bring a wife home. Or a diploma. Stan knew this. No wife, no diploma, no future for poor anxious Stanley with his stupid face and his stupid kippa and his stupid dreams. 

Stan didn’t even think he’d make it through the year. 

It would’ve been wrong to say “Then he met Bill Denbrough and everything changed.” It was not how it happened. Even after he had met Bill Denbrough, he didn’t think he’d live to see his twenties. It was only one month after he met Bill Denbrough that everything truly changed. It took him even longer to realize. 

Stan was wrong too, sometimes.


	2. something's not right about what i'm doing but i'm still doing it

This year was going to be the year of Bill Denbrough. Of course, he didn't know about it. No one ever knows. You don't get a little card by post. William Denbrough, Dorm Room 13, Welton Academy, 1 Welton Road, Ripton, Vermont, USA. This year is going to be the year you'll never forget about. The year you'll tell your kids about. This year your life changes forever.

Bill Denbrough did not get a little card. At the start of the new year at Welton, he got to carry the banner and a new little star to add to his blazer. He looked at himself in the mirror. Everything about him screamed "vote for me". Trophy son. 

His dad put a hand on his shoulder. It felt cold. Bill Denbrough always felt cold when he was with his family. He always felt like he was levitating outside his body, eight inches to the right. He caught his own reflection in the mirror. _Act_ _on_. He smiled. 

He was still smiling when he raised the banner above his head. He was still smiling when he shook the headmaster's hand. His jaw started to ache but he couldn't drop the act. The Denbroughs are perfect. 

Perfect Bill with his perfect grades and his perfect family and his perfect fucking life.

"Hi, my name is B-Bill Denbrough, I heard we're going t-to be roommates?"

His voice sounded so fake. He always stuttered when he talked to new people

The kid looked at him from under his curly hair. 

"Stanley Uris." He didn't smile. 

He didn't smile but he didn't _not_ smile, Bill realized. The smile was there, hidden somewhere behind his throat. Shy.

"You're a t-transfer, right? Why Welton?" 

"My father went here." His voice was soft, like a lullabye you have to strain your ear to understand.

Uris. Of course.

"D-Donald Uris? You have some b-big shoes to fill in." 

"You don't say." The _not_ smile again.

Bill observed the other boy's smile. _Not_ smile. The twitch of his lips, the chapped skin, the slight dimple in his right cheek.

He observed the new kid a lot on the first day. It was so strange, the way he seemed so frail and light and almost invisible. He hadn't found the right analogy yet but he would.

He studied the way he walked in the dorm, the way he unpacked his suitcase, the way he positioned his stationary, everything two inches apart, so square, so _perfect_.

When the kid walked out to say goodbye to his parents, Bill looked at the stationary. He thought it was stupid. He thought about moving a pen. He thought about hurling the whole desk on the ground. Then he saw it.

On top of the shirts in his closet. A tiny kippa, with a star of David and two bobby pins.

He was still staring at it when Richie Tozier launched himself in his arms. 

Richie had grown over the summer. His limbs were dangly and his hair longer and he looked stupid in his uniform. 

A genuine smile broke Bill's face.

"Honey I'm home," Richie crooned in his ear before throwing himself on the unmade bed on Bill's side of the room.

"How was your summer, slick? Rumor has it you did summer school?"

Bill huffed.

"Yeah my p-parents are d-d-d" Bill stopped. Breathe in. Breathe out. "D-desperately t-trying to g-get rid of me."

Richie didn't comment on the stutter but Bill could see he had noticed it.

There was a slight knock on the door and the new boy, Stanley, walked in, followed by Ben, Mike, and Eddie.

Ben had not grown during the summer. Her slacks still hung weirdly on her ankles and her shirt was still too tight around her stomach. Her hair was a bit longer, in a loose ponytail. Ben Hanscom was the only girl to attend to Welton. She joked it was because she was undercover.

Behind her, Mike closed the door. He still had boyish features but a slight stubble had appeared on his jaw. Mike Hanlon had been homeschooled most of his life but after his parents passed away, his wealthy grandfather had sent him to Welton.

Eddie had not changed at all. He was still short. He was still bouncing everywhere. He was still wearing his stupid fanny pack. 

Eddie Kaspbrak wore a fanny pack unironically, which made him both sixteen and sixty. He always carried on him his inhaler, just in case. Bill had only saw him actually have an asthma attack once, when Richie had dragged them into a jumping on the bed contest and the dust had made him choke. That was also the first time he had seen Richie Tozier actually worried.

"Gentlemen," Ben said, captivating everyone's attention, including Stanley's. Bill could see the way he was looking at Ben. Like he didn't really know but he suspected. He was very discreet. "What are the four pillars?" She imitated the headmaster's speech.

"Horror," Richie called from the bed.

"Travesty," Eddie pipped from Bill's desk.

"Decadence," Mike and Bill said at once.

"Excrement!" They all chanted.

Stanley stared at them before slowly spinning in his chair. Eddie seemed to notice him.

"Hey, I'm Eddie Kaspbrak, you're new, right?"

Stanley nodded.

"Oh," Bill remembered, "this is Stanley Uris."

"Just Stan."

"Hi Just Stan," Richie said from the bed, "I'm Richie Tozier."

"Mike Hanlon."

"I'm Benny Hanscom, my pronouns are she/her."

Everyone looked at Stan, asserting the situation. Was this safe? The _not_ smile floated on Stan's lips.

"Nice to meet you." He said, genuine. Bill decided he liked him.

Mike drummed on Eddie's backrest. "We got ourselves our study group, by the way, Nolan approved it."

"Yup, first session tomorrow at eight," Eddie confirmed.

Bill and Richie frowned in unison. 

"Eight is like..."

"Chill time," Bill said at the same moment Richie said "Eddie's bedtime."

"Fuck you man," Eddie pointed out. He was smiling.

Bill put a hand on Stan's shoulder like his father had done earlier. "You're welcome to join if you want."

Stan nodded again, his eyes fixed somewhere between the heater and the bedside table.

"Welcome to Hellton," Richie said with a smile, which could have been charming if his glasses didn't magnify his eyes ten times and made him look like a bug. 


	3. there's not enough room for us to be ourselves

Stan thought the study group was stupid. Who needs a study group on the first day of class? What did they want to study, each other's first names? Every school Stan has been to never did anything on the first day.

So Stan just nodded and looked away. 

At first, he didn't even notice that they had left the room. He just stared through the window. The courtyard below was busy, dark brown and orange mixing in a dizzying waltz. It was always autumn in Vermont. 

The image flashed in his mind. It was ugly and repulsive and distorted. The image was always creeping in the back of mind, hidden in a sub-drawer but always fighting to get out. He inhaled sharply. He tried to think about something else, anything else, but it kept coming back. 

He turned around to see if anyone had noticed his strange behavior but the room was empty. He scooted toward his wooden desk and knocked four times on it. He always did that when the image crept up. Always four times. Always on wood. The image kept dancing behind his eyes. He rested his forehead against the cold desk. Knock knock knock knock. 

He knocked twelve times, his head hidden in the crook of his elbow against the wood. 

His head shot up when he heard the door open behind him. Bill looked worriedly at him, his hand still on the door handle.

"Everything alright, S-Stan?" Stan nodded. "It's d-dinner time, you're coming?" Stan nodded again.

He thought Bill's stutter was cute. It made him less perfect. More human. 

Maybe _Hellton_ wasn't going to be as bad as he thought. 

_Turns out I was absolutely fucking wrong_, Stan thought to himself as he made his way to his fourth class of the day. They had given so much homework in barely five hours. Eddie clasped a hand on his shoulder.

"See you at study group tonight."

Stan groaned. This school was going to kill him. _The best of the best_, his father had said. 

He slumped in a vacant chair for his last class of the day. Behind him, Ben fidgetted with a pen until Mike kicked her desk to make her stop. A hush fell over the classroom as Mr. Keating, the English teacher walked in, nodded as a greeting and walked right out. Behind him, Stan heard Richie whisper "what the fuck" which pretty much summarized how everyone felt. 

"Well come on," Keating said, popping his head through the door frame.

He took them to Welton's Hall of Fame, a huge showcase displaying every single Welton achievements since the dawn of time. 

"O Captain, My Captain."

Stan caught a confused glance between Bill and Eddie. 

"Who knows where that comes from?" Keating asked broadly.

_Walt_ _Whitman_, Stan remembered.No one spoke.

"It's a poem by Walt Whitman," Keating supplied, "about Mr. Abraham Lincoln. Now, in this class you can call me Mr. Keating... or if you're slightly more audacious, 'O Captain My Captain'."

In a corner of the room, Richie smiled, his head tilted back in a daring stance.

Keating clasped his hands together. 

"Yes, I too attended _Hellton_ and survived. No, I was not the moral giant you see before you. I was the intellectual equivalent of a lobster."

_Lobsters are actually smart_, thought Stan._ And they have a nervous system quite similar to ours._

With a pang, he realized he actually was a lobster.

"Mr... Kaspbrat? A rather unfortunate nickname..."

"Kaspbrak," Eddie corrected, shyly. 

"Apologies. Mr. Kaspbrak, please open your book page five forty-two and read the first stanza you find there."

There was fumbling as everyone opened their book.

"_To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time_?" Eddie asked before kicking Richie in the shins after he started laughting. 

_ Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,_

_ Old Time is still a-flying;_

_ And this same flower that smiles today_

_ To-morrow will be dying._

"_Gather ye rosebuds while ye may_," Keating echoed, "the Latin term for that sentiment is _Carpe Diem_. Does anyone knows what that means?"

"Seize the day," ventured Ben. 

"Very good, Mr?"

"Miss Hanscom," Ben supplied before widening her eyes in horror.

Keating simply nodded. "Another unusual name._ Seize the day. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may._ Why does the writer use these?"

"Because he's in a hurry?" Richie suggested from his corner of the room.

"No, ding!" Keating said, slamming his hand down on an imaginary buzzer. "Thank you for playing anyway."

Richie raised a brow in Bill's direction.

"Because we are food for worms lads." Keating vouched. "Because, believe it or not, each and every one of us in this room is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold, and _die_."

Stan knocked on the wooden doorframe four times.

Keating gestured at the Hall of Fame.

"Look at the faces from the past. They're just like you. They think they are immortals. They think they are destined for greatness."

On Stan's right, Bill huffed.

"Now these boys are diplomats. Doctors. Bankers. Lawyers. How many of them, do you believe, have followed their dreams?"

Stan could see his own reflection in the glass. He knew none of them had.

"Carpe Diem, boys. Don't let it be you."

Behind the glass, Donald Uris stared back. With his stupid haircut and his stupid valedictorian medal and his stupid diploma.


	4. tell me about your books, your visions made of flesh and light

Stan was so focused on schoolwork it took him a full week to notice. He was walking down the hallway to English class with Bill, Mike, Ben, Eddie, and Richie when suddenly he noticed they were walking faster. First, he thought it was because they were going to be late but then he realized it was something else entirely. He looked up from the tile floor. Ben was hunched on her books, Richie was fidgetting with his glasses, Eddie hid his arm behind his back. 

They passed a group of older boys and Stan noticed how his friends instinctively _not_ looked at them. Of course. They had bullies. What's boarding school without bullies, amaright.

"Hey, Tozier!" One of them barked. He had a mullet which was not only out of style but extraordinarily ugly. Richie kept his eyes on the floor. Stan studied the other boys from behind his hair. One of them, tall, with greasy black hair was looking at Richie like he was a piece of meat. It made Stan want to wash his hands. He looked away.

"Yo Flamer, we're talking to you!" A hand reached for Richie's collar and shoved him into Eddie. Mike and Ben helped them up in silence like this was a routine. Bill spun around, almost startling Stan.

"You s-s-suck Bowers," he blurted, his jaw clenched. 

Henry Bowers raised an eyebrow and laughed. "You s-s-say something B-B-Billy?"

"Leave him alone."

The words escaped Stan's mouth before he even realized. 

"And who the fuck are you? Dumbrough's new boyf**—"**

"Mr. Bowers," Keating said from the doorframe of his classroom, "please stop importunating my students and get to your classes. You don't want to be caught in the hallways after the bell rang."

Keating said it with a smile but his voice was cold. Bowers and his gang glared at Stan before leaving.

What had he done? He could have avoided the bullies! No, he had to fucking sign his name up the blacklist. Good job, Uris. Spectacular. 

Bill squeezed his arm.

"Thanks, Stan, you didn't have to."

Stan shrugged.

"Welcome to the Losers' Club," Richie said eagerly, his fist up.

Stan bumped it. 

Dorm Room 13 was the headquarters of the Losers Club. Since Stan lived there, he had no choice but to be included in everything the Losers did. He turned some offers down, when he was too anxious to be around other people. The Losers were nice, but sometimes they were a bit too much.

Once, Bill had noticed how Stan was always tired after hanging out with them.

"Do you know B-Blink-182?" He had said.

"Do I know Blink-182?" Stan had replied, scandalized. "Bill, who do you think I am? Of course, I know Blink."

"Well, Richie is like, the emb-bodiment of What's My Age Again."

It had made Stan laugh. 

The Losers were currently squatting Dorm Room 13. Richie and Eddie had called in an Emergency Meeting. Richie was once again sprawled in Bill's bed. Eddie and Mike sat at the two desk chairs and Ben on the window frame. Stan was hunched up in the corner of his own bed, Bill sitting at the other end. 

"So," Eddie said, "Richie and I went to the library."

Mike huffed. "I didn't know Richie could walk into the library without going up in flames."

"Fuck you man," Richie called from the bed but it was playful.

Eddie stared at them until he had their attention back. 

"We found Keating's yearbook."

Richie revealed the yearbook and flipped it open. And there he was, on the page, a tiny eighteen years old Mr. Keating with zits and a stupid haircut. 'Man Most Likely To Do Anything.'

"What's the 'Dead Poets Society'?" Ben asked, pointing at the name right under Keating's achievements.

"We don't know, there's no mention of it anywhere else."

"I'll ask him," Bill offered.

Stan thought it was a bad idea.

  
  
He was still thinking it was a bad idea when he struggled to keep up with Bill, himself sauntering after Keating. 

"Mr. Keating," he called out. No response. "Mr. Keating!"

Keating had clearly heard them but he kept walking.

Eddie, whose legs were even shorter than Stan's gave up and started walking at his own pace.

"O Captain My Captain?" Bill tried.

Keating stopped and turned around, smiling.

"Gentlemen? M'Lady."

Ben smiled. "We found your yearbook, sir."

The look of horror on Keating's face was worth the trip. He examined the picture, crouching down.

"It's not me."

"What's the D-Dead Poets Society, sir?" Bill asked, crouching as well.

Keating smiled. It felt like a secret. It was a secret. Whispered, almost lost in the wind.

"You mean it was a bunch of guys sitting around reading poetry?" Mike asked, bewildered.

Keating laughed. "No, Mr. Hanlon, it wasn't just "guys", we weren't a Greek organization, we were romantics. We didn't just read poetry, we let it drip from our tongues, like honey. Spirits soared, women swooned, and gods were created."

Stan locked eyes with Bill.

"Not a bad way to spend an evening eh?" Keating smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Denbrough, for this trip down amnesia lane. Burn that please, especially my picture."

Keating walked away and Bill turned to them. He didn't even have to say anything. Of course they were in. They'd follow Bill anywhere. 

A leaf got stuck in Bill's hair, the bright yellow clashing against his auburn hair.

"Does anyone even know where the cave is?" Eddie asked doubtfully.

Richie grabbed him by the waist. "I do! Haha, dead poets, here we come!"

Stan couldn't help but notice how the boys were all so tactile. Bill was always touching his shoulder. Stan didn't even think Richie could live if he didn't touch them. He was always ruffling Ben's hair or tickling Bill or pinching Eddie's cheek. Richie had this craving for touch that Stan couldn't always understand. 

Richie always asked Stan if it was okay first. He never asked the other. Except maybe Eddie, with his eyes. This '_am I going to far?'_ look.

Stan thought it was cute. 

"We can't do it tonight," Ben objected. "I have dinner at the Danburys'."

"Sounds boring," commented Richie.

"Yeah, probably is. But I get to wear my own clothes. I am so tired of this uniform."

Bill squeezed her shoulder. "You go girl, what are you g-going to wear?" 

Ben smiled. "Probably a skirt. It's been too long. I miss having some passing."

"You're gonna rock it Benny!" Mike said, holding his fist up.

The Losers always fist-bumped. For stupid jokes, to say hello, to say anything.

Stan studied them like they were an entirely new species. Or like he was an alien trying to be a human. 

_Wow_, Stan thought._ I really am a lobster._


	5. sometimes the man felt like the bird and sometimes the man felt like a stone

Bill stared quizzically at his trigonometry homework. The only angles he was calculating were his own. The angles that made his life. It was not triangle-shaped, more like a zigzag. First bend: Georgie's birth. Second bend: Getting Silver at Christmas. Third bend: Welton. Fourth bend: the Losers. Fifth bend: Georgie's death. The zigzag plunged. It skyrocketed upside down. Then there, a tiny angle, the sixth bend. Stanley Uris.

Stan had turned down the study group session. Stan turned down a lot of things. Bill suspected he had a lot of anxiety. Social. Definitely OCD. He thought the others had also noticed because they were more gentle around Stan. Bill really liked him. He reminded him of the best parts of the Losers, he had Ben's calm and Mike's gentleness and Eddie's loyalty and Richie's sass. He also brought out these in them when they hung out. 

When Bill had first met Eddie and Richie, on his first year, it had seemed obvious. Like it was meant to be. When Mike joined in their third year and Ben in their fifth, it had felt the same. Like they had been missing this important piece and when they had joined the group of friends it had made sense. And now Stan. Bill's heart felt a little more full when they were here. Also, his stutter always seemed to go away when they hung out. They were his comfort zone. He wondered what was Stan's.

He was shaken from his daydream when Ben slipped in. She closed the door behind her and breathed out. She was wearing, to no one's surprise, a New Kid On The Block t-shirt and a corduroy cord skirt. 

"Hey, handsome," Bill called, "how was d-dinner?"

Ben slid onto the bench opposite him. "Terrible."

"What? What happened?" Mike asked worriedly.

"Did they misgender you?" Eddie frowned.

"I met a girl," Ben confessed.

They stared at her.

"Excuse me?" Richie pipped. "How is that terrible?"

Ben threw a hand in the air. "Dude, first of all, I don't even know if she likes girls. Second, maybe she's transphobic. Third, she's like, way above my league."

"Who even is that girl?" Eddie said, dismissing his homework gleefully.

"Her name is Beverly Marsh. She's the adoptive daughter of the Danburys. She has bright red hair and the most beautiful smile. Her eyes are so blue, guys!"

Bill smiled and Mike patted her back. 

"Look at you," Richie laughed, "You meet a girl once and next thing we know, you're getting married!"

Ben smiled too, kicking loosely his arm.

When Bill struggled to fall asleep, he always liked to listen to Stan's breath, fall into pace with them. He turned to his roommate's vague silhouette.

"Stan?" He called. He stuttered a bit which made it sounds like SttttAn.

Stan shifted, turning to him. "Mmh?"

Bill froze. He had nothing to say. He just wanted to hear Stan's voice.

"Bill?"

Bill fixed the ceiling then blurted out. "What's your favorite thing in the world?"

Stan propped himself on his elbow, his eyebrows knitted. "Wha..." He started to whisper before eventually falling back on the bed.

Bill thought for a second he wouldn't reply and just go back to sleep.

"Birds," Stan eventually said. Bill looked at him. The pale moonlight drew the contour of his features. His nose, his lips. 

"Why birds?"

"They're just so... free?"

And somehow, knowing Stan, it made sense. Bill had his analogy now. Stan was a bird. 

They laid awake in the dark, buzzing with the knowledge that they were understandable. _Known_.

Bill started sketching again. In English class, it helps him concentrate on what Keating is saying. He draws the Losers, most of the time. Ben daydreaming about her 'Beverly', Richie smoking behind the bleachers, Eddie and Mike studying, Stan writing, hunched in the corner of his bed. 

Keating had recently asked them to find a poem that spoke to them on a personal level. He was pretty sure everyone else had found theirs but he was still struggling. 

He even asked Keating if he could recommend him poets. Keating had just smiled his secretive, wry smile. 

"You seem like a Richard Siken man, Mr. Denbrough. Now, _Crush_ or _War of the Foxes_?" The last part was more to himself, as he fumbled in his bookshelf. He ended up lending both books to Bill.

In the quiet of his room, Bill read _Crush_ first. _You seem like a Richard Siken man, Mr. Denbrough_. Could Keating have possibly known? Was it this easy to _tell_?

Of course, every poem was a whiplash but he needed _the_ _one_. He found his poem in _War of the Foxes. _The second he read it, it made sense._ The Language of the Birds._

_"A man saw a bird and wanted to paint it. The problem, if there was one, was simply a problem with the question. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how, because hows are easy—series or sequence, one foot after the other—but existentially why bother, what does it solve?_

_And just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn’t mean you’ve accomplished anything. Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? Who controls the lines of inquiry? We do. Anyone can._

_**Blackbird**, he says. So be it, indexed and normative. But it isn’t a bird, it’s a man in a bird suit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, because he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible._

_Unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the paint is like looking at a bird that isn’t there, with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway._

_The hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not_, _and the hand wants to do something useful. **Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart**, says the heart."_


	6. here are the illuminated cities at the center of me

"Gentlemen," Keating said from behind his desk, "open your text to page twenty-one of the introduction. Mr. Hanlon, will you read the opening paragraph of the preface, entitled 'Understanding Poetry'?"

Mike nodded. "Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D..."

As he finished reading, he looked up to Keating expectantly. Mike's voice was soft and gentle, and Stan liked it. 

"Excrement." The class stilled. Eddie snorted before covering his mouth hastily. "That's what I think of Mr. J. Evans Pritchard," Keating said with a smile. "We're not laying pipe, we're talking about poetry. I mean, how can you describe poetry like American Bandstand? I like Byron, I give him a 42, but I can't dance to it."

A few more laughs erupted and Richie raised a brow, clearly more interested.

"Now I want you to rip out that page," said Keating. Stan's eyes went wide. "Go on, rip out the entire page. You heard me, rip it out. Rip it out!"

Stan gave a hesitant look to the class behind him. Bill caught his eyes. His face said 'What the fuck is going on?'. The sound of a tear made everyone turn to the back of the class where Richie was holding the first page of the introduction about twelve inches from the poetry book, his brow still raised.

"Thank you, Mr. Tozier," Keating said then to the class, "Gentlemen, tell you what, don't just tear out that page, tear out the entire introduction. I want it gone, history. Leave nothing of it. Rip it out. Rip! Begone J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D."

Everyone started merrily tearing their poetry book apart. Ben's hand hovered over hers, unsure. 

"It's not the bible," Keating told her, "you're not going to go to hell for this."

Stan cleanly teared his copy along his ruler. He hated when paper teared up messily. As Keating left to fetch a bin, McAllister, the Latin teacher walked in, alarmed by the noise. Give teenagers a little freedom and they'll tear down everything. Including, apparently, _Understanding Poetry, by Dr. J. Evans Pritchard, Ph.D_. 

"What is going on..." He whispered to himself. From the corner of Stan's eye, Richie put the pages he teared up in his mouth. 

"Mr. McAllister?" Keating called as he walked back in. 

"Mr. Keating," McAllister stilled, "I didn't know you were here."

"Well, I am."

The old man hesitated. He really itched to punish someone, it looked like. "So you are." He excused himself and left the room. 

Keating waded through the desks theatrically, bin in hand, dutifully collecting every _Evans Pritchard, Ph. Ds_. Richie spat his one directly into the bin.

"Thank you, Mr. Tozier." Keating placed the bin back by his desk. He leaned against it and crossed his legs. "Now gentlemen, poetry is not something you can understand with academics. You can't measure poetry. It's not maths. No, in my class, you will learn to think for yourselves. If you don't think for yourselves, you spend your life being who other people want you to be. And if you spend your whole life being someone else, then who’s gonna be you?"

Stan looked up from his desk, eyes locking briefly with Keating before he inevitably looked away. Guilt ate him up.

"You don't think poetry has anything to teach you, do you? You think it's just a curriculum you can't avoid but don't need because who needs poetry to be a lawyer or a doctor, right? Let me tell you something."

He gestured them to scoot closer.

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. Poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for." 

Stan spent study group thinking it over. _The powerful __play goes on and you may contribute a verse_, Keating had said, _what will your verse be? _He could guess the verse of all his friends but finding his own somehow seems incredibly hard. You don't know who you are when you're seventeen. 

_ I wonder if I'll ever know who I am. _

"So, St-tan," Bill asked, sliding next to him on the bench. Stan tried to focus his attention on anything but Bill's knee pressing against his leg. "We're doing it t-tonight."

Stan's doubt flushed on his face. "I don't know, Bill," he whispered, "Keating said that everybody took turns reading and I don't want to do that."

He avoided Bill's eyes. 

"It's ok-kay, I'm not sure I want t-to read out loud either. What if we d-didn't have to read? What if we just came and listened?"

"But that's not how it works."

"Forget how it works. We make our own rules! No one's gonna be there telling us what is allowed and what isn't!" Bill squeezed Stan shoulder. "You're in."

It wasn't a question, it was a fact. 

Bill Denbrough was a peculiar boy. He struggled to maintain a conversation with strangers, stuttering and blushing. But when he was enthusiastic about something his stutter would completely disappear. Bill had a voice that could raise the dead and build them into an army. 

Bill Denbrough's deads would either fight with him or destroy him. This was not what Stan expected to find out about Bill. But he had.

One evening, the week before, after lights out, both boys were on their phones speaking in the group chat when suddenly Bill had put his phone down and walked away. 

Stan had stared at the closed door, perplex. He'd reread the group chat conversation trying to piece out what had happened. 

No specific message jumped out to him as particularly upsetting. They’d been speaking about animes. Richie had made a stupid joke about hentais, Ben was talking about the animes her mom had made her grow up with, Georgie, Sailor Moon and Candy.

A small sob came from the other side of the door as Bill slumped against it, slowly sliding down.

‘guys’, he texted the groupchat, ‘something happened? bill just left? and i think he’s crying?’

That night, Stan had learnt the truth about Bill Denbrough and his deads. 


	7. a man takes his sadness and throws it away but he's still left with his hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for mention of death, depression, and suicide attempt

Stan was sitting on the edge of his bed when Bill walked back into the room. His eyes were puffy and he sniffed.

"S-sorry for keeping you up."

Stan shook his head. "Are you okay?"

Bill smiled weakly, sitting in front of him on his own bed. 

"I feel like a river. Sometimes I just... overflow." Stan nodded like it was a thing he was familiar with. "It's just like... I've been so fake and hollow for such a long t-time, I forget reality."

But reality never forgets me.

Bill padded toward Stan's bed and sat next to him, bringing his knees under his chin. It was easier if he wasn't looking at him.

"When I was fourteen, my little brother Georgie went missing."

This felt like a good start. He wanted to tell Stan because he wanted Stan to understand him. Georgie felt like a good place to start. 

"No one knew where he was for months. I never stopped looking for him."

Bill's mouth opened to say the hardest part but somehow he couldn't. The words just refused to come out. He just sat there gaping like a fish, unable to utter a single sound.

"It was in the sewers. For a whole s-summer."

He didn't precise what was in the sewers but Stan shuddered. _His body was in the sewers._

"He wasn't alone, there were other k-kids that had gone missing too."

Victoria. Dean. Betty. Edward. Adrian. 

"My speech imp-pediment got worse. Like, so worse, I couldn't t-talk at all. They had to take me to this doctor and stuff. I missed a bunch of class. They said I had depression. Sometimes, I miss him so much it obliterates every other emotion in me. But sometimes I just f-forget it, you know. And everytime I remember, it’s like, a punch in my ribc-cage. I just wish he was still there."

The two boys sat quietly until Stan broke the silence.

"Two years ago I tried to kill myself."

It felt like Bill's breath had been knocked out of his lungs. Of course, Stan had this brokenness about him but Bill never believed it could take any form.

"I don't like thinking about it. I try not to most of the time. It was an accident. But my brain keeps replaying this image and the wrongness of it always makes me feel... off. So I developed coping mechanisms. Then I developed coping mechanisms for everything. Apparently it's OCD. I have to knock on wood four times. I can’t let there be mess. Everything has to be organized. Sometimes I feel dirty for no reason. It upsets me to walk in the cracks in the sidewalk or between tiles."

Bill frowned. He had seen Stan doing that many times. He'd just never pieced it together.

"Was it really an accident?"

"At the moment it wasn't. But in the course of my life, it is now. I wouldn't do it again. At the time, it was just too much. I exploded but not in the way that expands after. I just... deflated. I was bullied a lot, and my father put a lot of pressure on me, and I had this crush on a guy, and it was weird because I also had this crush on a girl, and I was very confused, and I just... fucked up."

Bill nodded. He nodded so hard he felt his head might dislocate. Stan had had a crush on a guy. Bill had had crushes on guys. On girls too.

"You're bi?" He asked carefully. He didn't want to scare Stan off.

Stan shook his head. "No it's not like that, it's... I don't care about the gender of the person I like. I just... like them? It has a name, it's called pansexual."

Stan pulled up his knees under his chin. Like he was protecting himself now that the truth was out.

"I'm glad you're better now," Bill just said. And he was.

"I hope you will be too," Stan replied softly. 

They stayed on the bed, like two eggs of limbs and broken hearts, shoulder against shoulder. It felt weird being known to each other but it also felt good. 

"Losers," Bill called for attention, "I hereby reconvene the Dead Poets Society."

Richie echoed Bill by knocking on a metal barrel as if it was a gong. He was smoking a cigarette which looked a bit damp but they were also in a cave so... They were all wearing their pajamas under their robes and winter coats. The night air had blushed their cheeks and noses. 

"Stanley Uris, because he prefers not to read, will keep minutes of the meetings."

Stan nodded. Keating had left a book in their room titled _Five Centuries of Verses_. It was old and worn out and Keating had written on the first page. Bill flipped it open and started reading.

_'I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life. To put to rout all that was not life, and not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.'_

And not, when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived. Carpe diem. Lest we die unbloomed. All these poets wishing them to live so fully and here they were, rotting away in school. Welton was not a place in which you achieved dreams. It was a school in which you studied to become a lawyer or a doctor or a banker and you died full of regrets. No matter how much Stan had sworn he would not let it be him, he knew his father. 

Mike nudged him with his foot. "Earth to Stan? Are you there?"

"Sorry, I was having an existential crisis."

"As one does," Mike joked. Stan smiled.

They all took turns reading some poems. Richie read one with an awful southern accent. Eddie complained about dust and asthma. Every poem Ben read was about love. Someone brought a kazoo. They kept cracking jokes about everything. Stan laughed so much his cheeks hurt. He loved the Losers. He wouldn't trade that friendship for anything in the world. 


	8. sometimes, at night, in bed, before i fall asleep, i think about a poem i might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart

Stan loved Keating’s class. He  _ loved _ it so much. But he was just not ready to participate yet. The boys — and Benny — were all so eager to participate and talk with Keating. Stan was just, not there yet. Sometimes he didn’t think he’d ever be ready. 

He had tried to talk about it with Ben once. 

“Words are very hard. It’s like, a language that I don’t really know so I don’t want to say anything for fear I’ll call someone’s mother a horse by accident. Except I’m fluent in English. But talking is just, so hard? I don’t know how to be myself out loud.”

Ben had smiled knowingly. 

“No one’s expecting you to be anything you’re not ready for.”

Stan had huffed. “Except my dad, and school, and everyone else. I mean, how do you stand up for yourself if you can’t talk!”

“You sound just like Bill. Always sticking it to the Man. And Bowers.”

Stan had sighed. 

“I can’t believe you guys have bullies, you’re like, the best people I know.”

“We’re losers,” Ben had reminded, bumping their shoulders together as they sat on Stan's bed.

“No! I mean yes, you are, but being a loser doesn’t mean you should get spat on or whatever.”

"It's not just the loser thing," she had said, "the loser thing is like a direct effect from the bullying thing."

Which sorta made sense. But it didn't meant it was right.

"I just don't get how kids like you can be bullied. Me, okay I get it, I cant talk and I'm fucking..."  He had almost said _psychotic_. 

"Yeah well, Mike’s black, Bill’s got a stutter, I’m a fat trans lesbian, Eddie’s short and hypochondriac and Richie’s just annoying. Anyway, what did you expect?"

"I thought it was because Richie was gay," Stan just said, his brows furrowed.

Yes, Richie was annoying but did he deserve that _hate_? Fuck, he was just a kid. None of them deserved to be shoved in hallways and having their names carved around slurs on the bleachers. 

_Then why do you think you do_, a voice said in the back of Stan's mind. It sounded a lot like Eddie's.

"I think," Ben started, and Stan reconnected his brain to Earth, "that Richie might be gay, but all his life he's been told being gay was bad. I think he's got a lot of internalized homophobia. I don't know for sure if he's gay, or bi, or whatever, but it's something he'll tell us when he's okay with it."

"Do you think he's repressed it?"

"No, I don't think so, but this is not healthy." She made a gesture englobing the school.

"What about Eddie?"

"What about him?"

"Richie's been flirting with him for so long I thought they were together at first."

"Oh yes. That."

"I think Richie is in love with Eddie." Ben nodded in agreement. "Do you think Eddie likes him back?"

"I'm sure Eddie loves Richie, now I don't know if it's only platonic but Eddie’s got his fair load of homophobia on his back and I think he'll need time if he ever reciprocates. They both need time."

"What's Eddie's story?"

"He'll tell you, eventually. When he feels safe. They both will, when they're safe and ready."

_ Safe and ready.  _

Keating just asked him a question he knows the answer of but, what if it's not that? He couldn’t make a fool of himself. He stared back. Keating eventually gave up before Stan could muster the courage to speak.

He knocked on his desk two times before circling it to use the chair as a ladder to climb on the desk itself, various papers and pen falling to the floor.

"Why do I stand on this desk? Anybody?"

From the back of the class, Richie ventured:

"To feel taller?"

A smile broke on Keating's face. "No. Thank you for playing anyway Mr. Tozier."

From the tip of his foot, he nudged a bell on his desk. It had became a recurring joke. The class laughed, as they always did. Richie looked at Eddie, as he always did. Eddie glared and turned away with a smile, as he always did. 

"I stand on this desk," Keating said gravely, "to remind you that we must constantly look at things in a different way. You can always benefit in a change of perspective. The world looks very different from up here. You don't believe me? Come look."

As always, the class was still for a second, trying to assert if Keating was joking or not. This whole curricular had been a change of perspective. They were taught things that were finally useful, and outside of the strict boundaries of private school. They could loosen up here. 

Bill and Richie sprinted to the desk but Mike got there first, since he was the closest. Mike and Bill climbed onto the desk, watching the whole class has if it were a new territory, a vast land of promises and not rows upon rows of tables and chairs. They looked like fearless leaders. Stan would followed them anywhere. 

They jumped from the desk to leave room for Richie, who helped Eddie get on the desk with an offering hand.

"My prince," he said.

"Fuck you," said Eddie, accepting it but turning away so that Richie couldn't see him smile.

They all climbed up and down the desk like ants over a crumb. Stan looked at them from his chair, unsure. 

_I don't think I'll ever be ready._

Ben locked eyes with him, behind the desk. She smiled timidly and held out a hand for him to join her. 

As he climbed on the desk and Ben climbed down, Keating turned to the class.

"Just when you think you know something," he said, 'You have to look at it in another way. Even though it may seem silly or wrong, you must try! Now, when you read, don't just consider what the author thinks. Consider what you think. You must strive to find your own voice. Because the longer you wait to begin, the less likely you are to find it at all. Thoreau said, "Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." Don't be resigned to that. Break out!"

_The longer you wait..._

"...Now, in addition to your essays, I would like you to compose a poem of your own, an original work. That's right! You have to deliver it aloud in front of the class on Monday. Bonne chance."

Stan froze, a knot in his stomach, in his chest, in his head, his whole body was a knot. His ears were ringing and he almost fell off the desk. Anxiety numbed all his senses. 

"Mr. Uris," Keating said from the hallway, making him snap out, "don't think I don't know that this assignment scares the crap out of you."

And he thought about Bill's poem. How he saw itself in it. _Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart._ He looked up from his feet, and all he saw was Bill. Bill's smile, lighting the room like an autumn fire. The sun, catching in his hair. In his eyes. 

_Break out!_

Stan jumped.

Turned out, breaking out isn't as easy as it sounds. Stan was always afraid of speaking up and now he had to tell everyone a truth about himself? How could he write a poem that wasn't exposing a part of him to Welton. To Keating. To the Losers.

_A poem I might write, someday, about my heart._

He couldn't make something up, it will have to be something true about him, because he could not stand to be dishonest. Laying his heart bare, like a tiny baby bird. It had to be like that, and it terrified him.

He started sketching out a poem. About a boy. A bird. Him? Someone else? 

Words were always so hard, slipping out his grasp like sand or water. Bill opened the dorm room widely and Stan lost his train of thoughts, discarding angrily the notebook.

Bill looked at Stan expectedly, pointing a finger with a huge happy smile.

"What?"

"I f-found it," Bill said, his voice climbing on the last syllable of 'found'.

"Found what?"

"What I wanna d-do with my life. What's really inside of me."

Stan frowned and Bill climbed on his bed, his smile radiant and a bit crooked.

"You know how I've been sk-sketching, lately? Well, the public school is having this writing contest, open to everyone. You make a children's b-book, you illustrate it and if it wins, it goes into p-publishing! That's what I want to do! I've always loved writing and drawing and I can do both!"

"That's amazing, Bill," Stan said, a smile creeping on his lips as well. 

"I can write about grief and pain but in a child friendly way, I can talk, I can talk about all the things my dad wants me to repress. He's always been against me being an artist. He wants me to be a doctor. But I _need_ this."

"If he doesn't want you to be an artist, then how is he going to react when he finds out about this?"

"What he doesn't know can't hurt him!"

Stan shook his head. This would never work. 

"Why don't you just call him and ask him? And maybe he'll say yes."

"Stan, he won't say yes. You know how dads are, your d-dad's the same! If I don't tell him, then he can't f-forbid me!"

"But—"

"Jesus, S-Stan! Who’s side are you on?"

Stan's face went blank for a second. Bill immediately softened. Carefully, he sat on the window sill, his gaze lost in the courtyard below.

"For the first time in my whole life I know what I wanna do and for the first time I'm gonna d-do it. Carpe diem!"

He turned to Stan and Stan looked down at his worn up socks. A thread was sticking out of his left big toe. 

"You're coming to the meeting this afternoon?," Bill asked softly.

"I don't know. Maybe."

He tried not to make it sound like he was hurt but he was.

"Nothing Mr. Keating has to say means shit to you, does it?"

Bill tried not to make it sound like he was hurt but he was.

"W-What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're in the club," Bill said, exasperated. "Being in the club means being stirred up by things. You look about as stirred up as a cesspool."

He gestured to Stan. It was true, but— hey!

"So, you want me out?"

"No! I want you in, but being in means you gotta do something. Not just say you're in."

Stan looked up and sighed.

"I'm not, I'm not like you, Bill. You say thing and people listen. I'm, I'm not like that. And there's nothing you can do about it, so you can just... butt out. I can take care of myself just fine. Alright?"

He leaned back against the wall, huddled up in the corner of his bed. He almost sounded serious until he fucking said 'butt out'. Who says butt out. No one. He grumbled and pulled his foot closer to pick on the thread.

"No," Bill said.

Stan raised his head.

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

A sly smile made his way onto Bill's face.

"No."

He leaped across the room and snatched Stan's notebook. 

"Give me— Bill. Bill, give that back."

Bill flipped the notebook open, jumping onto his bed to escape Stan who'd leaped at him too.

"'The b-boy with the—' Poetry!" He gulped, laughing. He jumped to Stan's bed, the other boy on his heels. "I'm being chased by Walt Whitman!"

Stan launched himself at Bill, pushing the both of them against the wall above Bill's bed. Their weight shuffled and both of them fell on Bill's bed. The air was kicked out of Stan's lungs as Bill came crashing on him, all bony elbows, knees and tangled hands. Stan ripped the notebook out of his grasp and flunked it under his bed. 

"Do you need help?" Bill whispered, inches away from Stan's face.

"With what?" He whispered back, overly conscious that his face was red from all the jumping, and all the running, and all the _Bill_ in his face right now.

"Your poem, it's really bad."

A smile broke on Bill's lips. Stan noticed because he was looking at them.

"Fuck you," Stan replied with a laugh.

Bill reached over Stan's head and pulled a small book between the two of them, hiding all but his eyes. Thank G-d, Stan thought, or he would've kissed him. Or maybe not. If they were in a movie, it would have been a perfect time for a kiss.

Stan pulled away, squinting to look at the book cover, his ears bright pink.

A man brushed his lip, his skin coated with something wet and slick. Blood, or sweat, or water, or tears. The title read _Crush_.

"Keating lent it to me, I think you'd like it."

Stan tore his eyes away from the man's shiny thumb and looked at Bill. 

"Thanks," he whispered.


	9. the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> eddie's poem is mostly inspired by [maddie's poem](https://vegaschapters.tumblr.com/post/189927373588/picture-this-you-are-two-people-you-look-alike) (you can find her [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsandandstars/pseuds/windsandandstars)) also all the chapter titles are from richard siken poems!

Ben was standing in front of the class. She had recently cut her ponytail to a bob that sadly obliterated her passing. They all suspected Welton had put her up to it but she didn't want to talk about it. She cleared her throat and announced:

"To Beverly."

She gave a nervous smile.

"Your hair is winter fire, January embers..."

The class has started to snicker. Stan glared at them.

"...My heart burns there, too," Ben finished in a sigh.

She crumpled her poem and threw it in the bin.

"Sorry, Captain, it's stupid..."

"No, no. It's not stupid," Keating reassured her. "It's a good effort. It touched on one of the major themes, love. A major theme not only in poetry, but life. Thank you, Ben."

Eddie took her place, his hands twisting around a piece of paper. 

"Side effects of my mother tongue," he said, taking in a breath. 

The Losers all gave him a thumb up and he smiled.

"Picture this: you are two people. You look alike, people always tell you. You don’t see it, but they do."

He breathed in, out. 

"You both know how to hurt, and how to be hurt. You talk in the same way. You say things to the other, but you hurt instead of them. If you tried to smash a mirror, they would still be a part of you. It’s a bloodline the doctors would find _sickness_ in. And you leave, you come back, you scream until your lungs hurt, but the sound comes out of the other room. 

They know a lot of things. How to write Italian, how to cook pasta without it sticking together, how to sew up holes in sweaters, but they don’t know how to love you. You learned how to love from them. Now, you don’t know how to love you. Or how to love anyone else. You’re choked in your dreams. You’re touched tenderly in your nightmares. You cry until you dissolve or you don’t cry at all.

They teach you that your body is not your own, and that all you have is them, that all they do is for you, and you are not your own. You are not your own. 

You are two when you’re together. You are separate when you’re alone."

His voice was shaking and the room was breathless.

"I’m choking on my mother tongue, it was my mother’s tongue, and I don’t know how to use it. So they put you on another medication. The side effects have been scratched off with a set of acrylic nails. You don’t know which one of you feels better when you’re sick. You stop taking the medication. You forget again. You smash another mirror. They’re still there. You are still there. You can never leave.

Careful affection forever has its hands around my neck."

Eddie finally looked up. 

"Mr. Kaspbrak," finally said Keating, "You rise above your name. Thank you for this piece of your soul. You see, poetry can come from anything with the stuff of revelation in it. Whatever you write about, you're all amazing artists. You reveal to the light what is hidden in you. Just don't let your poems be ordinary, boys. Now, who's next?"

Stan's stomach was no longer a knot, it was a stone.

"Mr. Uris."

The stone dropped.

"I see you sitting there in agony. Come on, Stan, step up. Let's put you out of your misery."

Stan stared at his desk. Someone had started to carve something but had stopped before the word was finished. Stan traced the letters. LOVE M.

"I didn't do it," he finally said. "I didn't write a poem."

That wasn't entirely a lie. He had wrote a poem but tore it up this morning. He'd rather have a bad grade than _step up_ and speak.

"Mr. Uris thinks that everything inside of him is worthless and embarrassing," Keating said with a sigh. "Isn't that right? Isn't that your worst fear? Well, I think you're wrong. I think you have something inside of you that is worth a great deal."

Stan disagreed. He still managed to look up and make eye contact with Mr. Keating. His eyes said _prove me wrong, I dare you_. Stan's eyes said _nobody look at me or I'll kill myself_. 

"Come here, Stan." He gestured at the front of the class and Stan sighed.

He gave a quick look at the class and regretted it immediately. Everyone was looking at him.

"Close your eyes," Keating prompted.

Stan did.

"What do you see?"

He saw nothing. Tiny dots, light from where the window was. He opened his eyes and looked at Bill for reinsurance. Bill gave him a nod of encouragement. Keating placed a hand on his eyes.

"Close your eyes, what do you see Stanley?"

"Two brothers."

He regretted it as soon as he said it.

"A wasteland," he prompted instead.

"What are they doing?" Keating asked, slowly spinning Stan.

"Playing. Laughing. Rolling to the floor, clutching their bellies. Poison. It shouldn't be? One of them is dead."

He opened his eyes, briefly catching Bill's. He closed them immediately.

"What about the other brother?"

"He's crying. Mum-mumbling."

"What's he mumbling about?"

"Truth! Truth like a blanket that always leaves your feet cold!"

The class started snickering.

"Forget them, forget them. Stay with the blanket. Tell me about that blanket."

"You push it, stretch it, it'll never be enough. You kick at it, beat it, it'll never cover any of us. From the moment we enter crying to the moment we leave dying, it will just cover your face as you wail and cry and scream."

Stan opened his eyes. Keating had taken a step back and was crouched, looking up at him. Stan looked at the class anxiously. He expected Bill to hate him, a cold hard stare, or worse to not even look at him.

Bill was looking at him like he'd hung the stars.

"Don't you forget this," Keating said, standing up to clasp Stan in a hug.

The class erupted in cheers and applause.

On their afternoon off, they always sat by the lake. They enjoyed the last warm days before the winter. Mike and Ben always brought books, Richie always brought food. Stan was leaning against a tree looking at his friends. He enjoyed this, of course, but he felt like something was off. Like something was missing.

They were all listening to music, with headphones, careful not to disturb their friends' peace.

“Do you guys," Eddie started, making everyone take out an earbud to listen, "Have a song that just… seems like it’s about you? Or, that you just relate to so much it's like you wrote it in a past life?”

“Of course,” said Ben.

“Mine is Wings by Birdy," Stan confessed.

“Can I make you listen to mine?” Eddie asked.

They all nod. 

The first notes echoed in the air and they strained to hear the lyrics. Stan watched Eddie. His face was aching, his chest rising in beat with the music. He knew the lyrics, mouthing some of them, but Stan could still see his breath catch up when the beat dropped, like it surprised him every time. He could see Eddie’s heart was swelling right now. Overflowing with the feeling of being known.

At some point Eddie cried silent angry tears.

“You know it's not true, Eddie,” Richie said eventually. “You’re not her, you have nothing to do with her, your family doesn’t define you.”

Eddie looked at him quizzically like he wanted to say _of course it does_. instead he just said "Thanks, Rich."

Stan looked at them a little perplex. Eddie Kaspbrak was a puzzle. He might never understand or complete the puzzle, but Stan could grasps the picture on it despite not having all the pieces yet. 

“What's the title?” Ben asked.

“Runs in the Family by Amanda Palmer.”

“I think it's nice to have a song," Richie said, shuffling his legs to rest half on Eddie, half on Bill.

“Do you have one?” Mike asked him.

“Of course, do you want to listen to it?” Richie replied so earnestly Bill squinted with suspicion.

Stan was almost expecting Teenage Dirtbag or some Blink song. To say he was surprised when he recognized the music was an understatement. Stan was not a big theatre fan but there was not many musicals in which kids sang about being autistic. He had just never picked out Richie to be a Matilda kind of guy.

Richie shushed Bill's stare and raised the volume.

And somehow it made sense.

Stan caught a glimpse of Bill's phone and noticed he was listening to Wings by Birdy. He was about to say something when Ben stood up.

"I can't do it anymore," she said. "I need to do _something_."

"About what?" Bill asked, covering his eyes with his hand, the autumn sun shining directly on his face now that Ben had moved.

"Beverly!" Ben supplied like it was obvious. Richie echoed back, imitating Ben's high pitched voice. Eddie punched his arm.

"I have to talk to her."

As she started to walk back toward the school, the boys all leapt to their feet to follow her.

Ben walked to the payphone at the bottom of the Left Wing staircase, the boys quick on her heels. Headstrong, she dialed a number, waited for the person on the other end to pick up and immediately hung up.

Richie raised a brow.

"What was that about?"

"She's gonna hate me. The Danburrys will hate me. My parents will _kill_ me."

"Yeah, well, welcome to being a lesbian in the twenty-first century," Richie said, at the same time Mike said:

"Why would they hate you?"

"Uh, the Danburrys are like, crazy rich. She probably has standards way higher than the fat trans lesbian that her _parents _are friends with. My parents wanted me to meet the Danburrys to help me get into an Ivy League college! They won't help me if I _make out_ with their only daughter!"

"Who said anything about making out? You won't even talk to her!" Richie pipped.

"What about Carpe diem?" Mike said, a gentle hand on Ben's shoulder. "What about making your life extraordinary? This is what you want, you shouldn't let your parents decide everything for you."

Ben's eyebrows melted in a desolate way. Mike was right, Mike always knew what to say.

"You're right. Carpe diem. Even if it kills me."

Richie clasped Ben's shoulder. She turned to put more coins in the payphone. Behind her, Bill and Mike bumped fists.

"Hello, Beverly?"

The boys all leaned an ear but the payphone was barely audible even pressed to your ear.

"Hi, this is Ben. Ben Hanscom, from the dinner at your parents' house?"

After a pause, Ben supplied.

"Fat girl from private school?"

Eddie punched her shoulder. Ben dismissed him, listening to whatever Beverly was saying before turning to the boys.

"She's glad I called," she whispered. Another pause. "Would I like to come to a party?"

"Yes, say yes!" Richie urged.

Apparently, the phone worked better on Beverly's end because Ben pushed Richie away.

"Friday? I'll tell them. Okay, great, we'll be there. Okay, I'll see you. Bye."

She hung up again and Eddie punched her shoulder again.

"So?"

"We're invited. Party at the Danburrys, Friday. Can you believe she invited me to a party! She said she was going to call me!"

"She invited all of us, don't get your panties in a twist, Hanscom."

"That's not the point, _Tozier_. The point is..."

Ben trailed off. Eddie punched her shoulder again.

"Jesus, fucking stop! It hurts!"

"What's the point!"

"The point is she was thinking about me!"

Ben mindlessly picked up a pen and started writing on the wooden panel next to the payphone. All the boys directed their attention to the panel. Generations of Welton students wrote the names of their lovers on it. Richie slammed his hand on one of the marks, pretending he was leaning against the panel but he was too tall to make it look casual. The boys gave him a weird glance but Ben's smile as she traced 'B+B' was more interesting than Richie's odd gesture.

After she was done, they all made their ways toward the canteen in various states of glee. Stan trailed a bit behind.

The carving Richie had tried to hide said 'R+E'. Stan smiled delightedly as he joined the others.


	10. sorry about the scene at the bottom of the stairwell and how i ruined everything by saying it out loud

Every Friday afternoons, Welton chartered a coach to drive the students to the nearest town. The town was not very far but Hellton was pretty secluded and no student wanted to walk thirty minutes in almost darkness when a coach could take you to civilization in less than ten.

Stan only ever took the coach when he had something to buy. He had no other reason to go to town, he did not drink, he did not actually know anyone besides the Losers and the coach was kinda dirty, so the farthest away he was from it, the better. 

But because Benny Hanscom had been invited to a party by the girl she secretly — or not — had a crush on, Stan had agreed to ride the very unsanitary coach. He kept his eyes on the Vermont landscape to avoid looking at the bus and especially the tiny piece of plastic that had come off of the seat in front of him. He had tried to put it back to ease his nerves but it kept falling off and irritating him.

He shifted his foot and recoiled when the sole stuck momentarily to the beer-soaked floor. Eddie, even more of a germaphobe than Stan, was sitting at the edge of his seat, rubbing sanitizer on every inch of his hands. Mike eyed the two of them with a pitiful look.

Ben had been unbearable all day long. If she didn’t propose to Beverly tonight, it would be a miracle. She had insisted that everyone dress up for the party but at the terrible fashion sense of every male Loser present, she had ended up making a huge heap of everyone’s shared closet and choosing an outfit for each boy. Stan was currently wearing a shirt of his, a sweater of Mike’s and pants of Richie’s. The only one who had kept much of his own clothes was Bill, even though Ben had told him he still had bad fashion sense. With was ludicrous coming for someone who almost always wore oversized NKOTB shirts. 

Richie’s borrowed jeans were ripped at the knee and Stan absentmindedly picked the seam until the coach came to a stop downtown. Eddie rushed out of the bus, elbowing accidentally Mr. McAllister who was chaperoning the party-goers that night. However, Mr. McAllister had bigger problems than short germaphobes with bony elbows so he let it slide. The Latin teacher powerwalked into a coffee shop at a speed no adult of his age should be able to reach. 

The Danburry’s residence was a big colonial house on the outskirts, with music audible from the yard and fairy lights hung on one of the upstairs windows. Ben timidly walked to the front door and stared at it.

“Dude,” Richie said, reaching over her shoulder to knock.

The front door opened on a girl with fiery red hair that the backlit porch made look like a halo around her head. Her face was speckled with freckles and she beamed at them.

“Benny!” She gushed, “You came!”

Ben let out a nervous chuckle. Oh, G-d, thought Stan, she’s helpless. 

“I’m Mike,” said Mike, reaching a hand and saving the day.

Beverly hesitated for an instant, clearly unsettled by the cordiality. She eventually shook it.

“Beverly,” she replied.

“Oh we know—” Richie started, before being elbowed in the gut by Ben who threw her arm backwards without even looking away from Beverly. 

Stan was impressed. Beverly invited them into the house while Richie gasped for air. Under his breath, he muttered: “Lesbians are so annoying, God bless.”

None of the Losers had ever been to a party that wasn’t organized by private school students and they all looked very lost, looking around them like the Danburry house was another world entirely.

“Don’t worry,” Beverly said to Ben, a little loud over the music, “Of all the people present, you’re the one I hate the least.”

They smiled at each other as Bill protested.

“You’ve only just m-met us!”

Beverly squinted at him. “Prove yourself, then.”

Proving oneself did not take much, actually. Turned out, Beverly did hate pretty much everyone at the party. Her sister was actually the one who organized the party and she was way more popular than Beverly. 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Eddie replied, “We’re losers too.”

Beverly smiled, a wry smile and her eyes glistened. “Do you want to get out of here?” She asked with a raised brow.

Now, as previously stated, no student wants to walk thirty minutes in the dark. Richie made sure no one forgot his discontent as the group made its way back to the wood around Welton.   
Everyone found in Beverly a new friend. If they had fallen out of balance before, the Club rounded out perfectly now. Hanging out with Beverly felt natural. Like it was always meant to be.

She chatted with Eddie about her family life, took a step back alongside Richie to smoke a cigarette, compared books with Mike and Stan, cracked jokes with Ben, an arm nonchalantly flung around the other girl’s waist. 

Stan would have believed it to be truly nonchalant if Beverly’s shoulders and look weren’t so calculated and tense. It slightly comforted him that Beverly was as awkward as Ben. She did seem to really like Ben, as Bill pointed not discreetly at all, almost making Stan trip as he grabbed his arm.

It turned out Beverly had also signed up for the illustration book contest and knew Bill from afar but had never really talked to him. As the two went on talking about their book ideas, Stan fell into pace with Ben.

“She really likes you,” he pointed out, much more discreetly than Bill.

“Pshaw,” Ben replied, but she was smiling. 

They finally reached the cave where the Dead Poets Society meeting usually happened. After Keating’s time, the unkempt cave had littered with dead leaves but now that the Losers reinhabited it, it was more viable. They had put a grubby blanket on the floor and blocked out the drafty holes that often soaked up the cave when it rained. In a corner, a pile of plastic cups was always left because none of them were sensible enough to bring a thermos but also because when you put a cup on a flashlight, it makes a dope light source. 

“So what do you guys do here?” Beverly asked, looking around.

“We read poetry,” Ben supplied, “Midnight snacks, we discuss the world, we do our homework, we bitch.”

Beverly nodded approvingly.

“Don't you guys miss having girls around here? I mean, other than Benny?”

“Speaking of,” Richie said, crouching to fit his lanky body in the cave, “I'd like to announce I published an article in the school paper, in the name of the Dead Poets.” 

Everyone stopped dead in their tracks.

“What?” 

“Demanding girls be admitted to Welton.”

“How did you do that?” Mike frowned.

“I'm one of the proofers. I slipped the article in. Nobody knows who we are.”

“Well, don't you think they're gonna figure out who wrote it?” Eddie challenged. “They're gonna come to you and ask to know what the Dead Poets Society is. Richie, you had no right to do something like that.”

“Oh come on, Eds,” Richie replied, his voice louder to shout over Eddie. “You know this is bullshit! This fucking school is stuck in the 50s, it’s time to move on! There are already girls attending, it’s just time they get their fingers out of their ass, stop being transphobic and acknowledge that excluding girls and denying trans girls to be out is just fucking sexist. It’s 2020, for fuck’s sake. Are we just playing around out here, or do we mean what we say? If all we do is come together and reach a bunch of poems to each other, what the hell are we doing?”

“Listen, Rich,” Bill said calmly, “You don’t get to do this.”

Richie opened his mouth in indignation. 

“I’m all for inclusion,” Bill continued, “but not if it’s not safe. You put Ben on the spot right now. You made it dangerous. You had no right to make this decision alone.”

Eddie locked eyes with Beverly, who was following the argument with knitted brows, a hand in Ben’s. “Can I talk to you?” She mouthed and the three of them stepped out.  
Ben let out a shaky breath, a white puff coming out of her lips.

“Are you okay?” Eddie worried.

“Yeah, it’s just a bit much, uh… I think I’m having a panic attack.” She smiled shakily.

“Oh fuck,” he fumbled in his fanny pack, retrieving his inhaler. “Here. It’s a placebo but it calms my nerves when I’m freaking out.”

Ben pressed on the inhaler as Beverly rubbed her shoulder.

“It’s going to be okay,” Eddie comforted her, “Richie isn’t stupid enough to put you in danger.”

Beverly raised a brow. “Your boyfriend is quite stupid, though.”

“He’s not,” Eddie replied. “My boyfriend, I mean. He’s not my boyfriend. He’s… He’s actually quite stupid.”

Beverly’s brow disappeared into her bangs. “Does he know he’s not your boyfriend?”

On her left, Ben was motioning her to stop talking with huge eyes.

“Cause you guys seem pretty in love. And I’ve only known you for,” She checked her phone. “Two hours. Also, I need to leave right now or Ginny will hate me forever.”

Eddie stood there speechless as Beverly handed him his inhaler back with a smile and walked back toward the cave.

“Hey,” Richie’s voice cut in, “Would you not worry about your precious little neck? If they catch me, I'll tell them I made it up.”

“It’s in the yearbook.”

They all looked at Stan.

“It’s in Keating’s yearbook,” he explained, “It’s gonna show up in the system. They’re gonna tie it to Keating.”

“Fuck,” Richie whispered. “Well, go big or go home, amaright guys?”

They were sitting at assemblee when Stan remembered Richie’s words. 

“Whoever the guilty persons are,” Nolan was saying, “this is your only chance to avoid expulsion from this school.”

He was cut in his speech by a loud ringing. Like an ancient telephone. Richie stood up, holding a vintage bright red rotary. Every Loser looked up in horror and Eddie pulled on his blazer to make him sit back down. He pressed the phone to his ear, ignoring Eddie, everyone’s eyes fixed on him.

“Mr. Nolan, it’s for you.” He said with a bright smile. “It’s God, she says we should have girls at Welton.”

On Stan’s right, Bill pressed his forehead on the backrest of the bench in front of them and let out a _very long_ sigh. 


End file.
